


Chicken Soup for the Soul

by LittleMissGriff



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comedy, F/F, F/M, Gen, Largely Scott Being Scott, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:36:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissGriff/pseuds/LittleMissGriff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott was a man. A man with a plan.</p><p>Scott's plans sucked.</p><p>Or: Scott McCall becomes intimately familiar with the concept of Break-up Hair and reacts accordingly. He wallows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Soup for the Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reflectedeve (Lilith)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilith/gifts).



> Written for TW_Fall Harvest 2014
> 
> This is set in a dubiously canon compliant world post-season 2. Things have heavily been painted with a 'unicorn and sparkles' brush because, darn it, I want some silly fic. So, realize this is not going to be dark. It is, largely, a comedy with unexpected and largely unacknowledged fluff peaking around corners.

Scott had a plan. It might not have been Stiles’ ten year plan, but if he’d learned anything over the last few months, it’s that sometimes the long game was a waste of time. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t patient. Allison was worth waiting for - he’d promised, after all. It’s just, sitting around doing nothing didn’t seem like much of a plan when it came to winning back the girl of his dreams.

So, small things. A gift here, maybe a nice note there. Some flowers. Things that said, “I’m waiting for you and you’re worth it.”

“Stiles.” 

There was a grunt.

“If I were going to give you a flower and I didn’t want you to think it was weird, but you still got that I cared about you and thought you were the best person in the world, what should I pick?”

Papers rustled, but Stiles never replied. 

Looking up from his phone - Scott was looking for advice from his old texts from Allison, maybe she said something about really liking daisies in a super platonic, but not too platonic sort of way? - he sighed. Stiles was sprawled over the library table, face glued to his English assignment as his sleepy breathing fluttered the pages of Pride and Prejudice. 

Scott kicked him under the table. “Stiles.”

The dirty look from the librarian was worth Stiles’ graceless tumble as he jerked awake, knocking pens, paper, and notebooks off the table on his way on to the floor. “Ow.”

“Sorry,” Scott chimed insincerely. “I was asking what flowers I should get Allison. Ya know, to brighten her day, not to pressure her.”

“Uh,” Stiles blinked from the floor. “Nope. I’m not doing it.” He flopped back onto the cheap carpet like a cut marionette. “You can do your Allison-moping alone. I have work to do.”

“You were sleeping, dude.” Scott tossed Stiles’ paperback down next to him, “I’m pretty sure you can spare two minutes to help me think of something.”

With a whine, his best friend crawled back into his seat, Mr. Darcy’s face (it was a really creepy cover, ok?) tucked safely in the front pocket of his hoodie. “I thought she broke up with you. Doesn’t that mean you should, like, not stalk her?” Stiles rolled his eyes, “Don’t look at me like that. I did not beat you. She said she needed space, so… shouldn’t you like, be giving with the space-ness? I’m pretty sure that means ex-nay on the lowers-fay.”

“I hate pig latin.”

“Point remains, dude. Space means no flowers.”

“No,” Scott insisted stubbornly, “it means no romantic flowers. Like red roses would be weird, but like, yellow means friendship. I read that in the study guide.”

“Is that what brought this on,” Stiles demanded skeptically, “Is your inner Austen assaulting your good sense? If you send her flowers, she’s going to shoot you. This is Allison. I’m not exaggerating. She has a history of that sort of thing.”

“She does not.” Scott sulked obstinately, purposefully ignoring the fact she kinda did, but that didn’t matter because True Love conquered all and damn it, Scott was sending her flowers. Maybe he should just stop by the grocery store and see what ones were on sale. A florist would make it weird, he decided, but just grabbing a pre-made set out of the refridgerator was totally a friendly, thoughtful thing to do. 

Scott was awesome. This was totally going to work.

-

It totally wasn’t working.

For the third time that week, a freshmen found Scott in the hall and handed back his latest friendly novelty. This was a Meridia toy from McDonalds he found in a garage sale bargain bin. The freshmen was a short, wide boy who hadn’t reached his middle school growth spurt, yet, and eyed Scott with a combination of awe and suspicion, “Lydia told me to give this to you?”

Lydia, Scott decided firmly, was a bitch. And nosy. And terrifying.

Scott was going to have to talk to her. If Lydia kept sending all of his friendly overtures back, Allison was never going to think about Scott again and that would ruin everything. Scott wasn’t good with plans! This was the only one he had. If he had to start from scratch, he was going to be without Allison till senior year. 

But, he wasn’t out of options, yet. Because he was a man. A man with a plan. He was going to talk to Lydia Martin, explain that nothing weird was going on at all, and then she would let him be nice to Allison and everything would be great.

-

“I’m not sure when Edward Cullen became Beacon Hills chic, but lurking around dark corners is not a good look on you, McCall.”

“I am not lurking!” He also wasn’t squawking, but Lydia’s look made him think that maybe he’d come off as just a touch shrill. It was delayed puberty. His voice did that sometimes. Occasionally. When he was thirteen. 

She smile with that pouty fake head toss that managed to convey her complete dismal judgement on every aspect of his being without so much as a word, all while bouncing her hair in a flirty, fun fashion. Scott glared.

“I need you to stop sending back my gifts for Allison.”

“And you need to stop sending gifts,” Lydia snapped without so much as a moment’s thought. “It’s desperate and unattractive. Not that you could do much to be attractive these days, anyway.”

“I’m not trying to be attractive!” Scott huffed, “I’m just being nice. Can’t I be nice?”

Lydia’s flat look said no. No, he couldn’t.

“Look, McCall. I realize you two had this big starcrossed lovers thing going on, I get it, really, I brought my ex back from the dead. When it comes to dramatic declarations, I win. But funny thing about high school sweethearts. Even when magic and the supernatural is involved? The fire burns out. You can either accept it gracefully, like I did, and move on. Or, you can be pathetic and needy and send clingy passive aggressive gifts that you keep trying to insist are ‘friendly’, but in reality mean you still consider Allison something to be owned.”

Scott stared.

Lydia blinked.

“I don’t want to own her!”

With a delicate scoff, Lydia rolled her eyes. “Please, of course you do. But, you can’t. She’s moved on, Scott. I don’t think you realize this isn’t a matter of giving her space. In the words of Taylor Swift, you are never, ever, ever, getting back together.”

He’d never had a break-up preached to him in pop lyrics before. He’d never had anything preached to him in pop lyrics before. Scott was pretty sure he was offended. “You don’t know that.”

“Oh, boy,” Lydia sighed and grabbed his arm as she marched off down the hall, trailing him behind her like a confused three-legged puppy. She jerked him to a stop around the next corner that opened into the science hall. Allison’s locker was three classrooms down on the left. 

“Look.” She pointed at Allison.

Allison was leaning against her locker, binder held comfortably against her chest as she spoke with Claire from English. They’d been assigned together for the same project Stiles and Scott had failed to work on in study hall. 

More importantly, her long, ebony hair was…

“She cut her hair,” Scott observed sadly.

“Very good,” Lydia taunted with false approval, “You’re not quite as thick as you look. Now, do you know what that means?”

Scott shrugged, “She can’t wear braids?”

“I thought I’d have to lay this out for you.” She turned him around and pressed him back until he was pinned to the wall with one dainty finger tapping him in the center of his chest. “That, McCall, is what we girls like to call ‘break-up hair’. It’s an announcement to any and all outsiders that she has officially parted ways with the idea of dating you. Think of it as an ad in the paper announcing Allison Argent’s return to the dating pool, all mementos from Scott McCall 75% off. You’re officially last season’s boyfriend.”

Scott stared at Lydia. Then, he turned to look down the hall and the new hair of Allison Argent. “It’s just a haircut,” he objected feebly. “She said she needed time to sort things out.”

“Mm,” Lydia nodded in agreement. “She does. Luckily, one thing she’s figured out is that you? Are not something she’s real interested in worrying about right now. So these cheap five dollar flowers and painfully tacky ‘Thinking of you, friend!’ cards you’ve been leaving taped to her locked? Accept this as a mercy killing and save yourself from the inevitable public shut-down if you keep it up.”

“But..”

“Here’s my last advice,” Lydia grabbed him by the shoulders with a surprisingly sensitive touch and looked him straight in the eye. “Go home today, call Stiles, and have him do his duty as your best friend by buying out the Haagendaaz section of the frozen goods aisle at the supermarket. I’d suggest Ben & Jerry’s, but I know Chunky Monkey is Allison’s favorite and while the whole point of this exercise is letting you watch whatever dick-flick shoot-em-up action movie makes your sensitive bits feel all validated and manly while you cry your broken little heart out over some Rocky Road, it isn’t to crush your nuts in a vice of endless despair while you choke down mouthful after painful mouthful of reminder you got dumped.” She pat him twice and stepped away.

With a pause, she added, “If the urge to play Yellowcard hits you, do the right thing and say 'No'. Guy-liner and week old hair stopped being attractive in 2009.”

-

First thing Scott did when he got home was call in sick to Deaton’s (later he’d realize Deaton had to know he was lying since, ya know, werewolf), ordered two extra large pizzas with meat lover’s toppings, and found the longest emo punk rock playlist he could on Spotify and blasted it from his computer. 

Then, he tried to smother himself with his pillow. 

That was thirty minutes ago, the pizza guy had just turned into his driveway, his wallet was in his jacket on the floor next to his backpack in the kitchen, and he hadn’t died yet. His phone dinged with what was probably yet another psuedo-supportive, psuedo-I-told-you-so text message from Stiles offering to play video games and buy him curly fries - take that, Lydia Martin. No Rocky Road in this house - but Scott was still hoping to choke on his fake feathered pillow and leave a pretty corpse Allison would guiltily cry over at his funeral.

Ugh, who was he kidding? He was too hungry to die right now and the pizza man was knocking.

Scott trudged down the stair, opened the door, and immediately stared in horror. 

Derek Hale was paying off the pizza boy, stealing his food, and staring at him with frowning, judgmental expectation.

“No.” Scott slammed the door. 

Unfortunately, he forgot to lock it, so Derek just turned the knob and let himself in, which, rude. “I’m not doing this today,” Scott told him, marching up the stairs. “Leave my pizza by the door and go away.”

“My pizza,” Derek corrected. “I paid for it.”

“Fine!” He yelled back, “Take it with you, then, and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.” Scott slammed his bedroom door for good measure, then turned and shoved his bedframe against the door to keep Derek from using his same sly moves from before to let himself in. Then he went and locked his window, closed the blinds, pushed up the volume on his computer - Boulevard of Broken Dreams, kiss his ass, Lydia - and laid out on his bed in a puddle of endless misery. 

Derek didn’t leave.

The bastard even took his shoes off. 

He and the pizzas moved from the foyer into the kitchen where Derek pulled himself out a plate, then rustled through the silverware drawer before scratching a dining room chair out from underneath the table.

It was pizza, what did he need silverware for?

Scott refused to give in and ask. This was war. Like the French and the Germans. The Sitzkrieg. Over the Maggot Line. Mignon. M-whatever. Stiles would known. Scott was lucky to remember that much, but that’s because he drew a little cartoon to go with it when they learned about it in class. It had the Germans and French as little stick figures with berets and little Hitler mustaches, sitting facing each other in recliners. Stiles complimented him on his ingenuity. 

The pizza boxes opened and closed over and over again, Derek never used whatever silverware he’d pulled out of the drawer - Scott knew he’d done that just to annoy him, until Derek finally gave up, packed away the leftovers, pushed in the chair and…

Did the dishes?

God, Derek was dedicated. If Scott stayed up here all night, Derek was going to clean his house top to bottom and there was no way Scott could explain that to his mom when she got home. 

“Sorry, Mom. Derek gets twitchy when he’s ignored and goes on a vindictive cleaning spree. I didn’t think you’d mind if I left him unsupervised with the family valuables.”

If she found out Derek had been here, she’d kill him. 

Somehow, that sounded worse than smothering himself to death, so he lifted his pillow off his face stared at it sadly for a few more seconds, and tossed it in the corner.

It was his towel. His white flag. He surrendered.

Scott rolled off the bed, pushed it back where it belonged against the wall, straightened out his rug and squared it off (because he knew it drove his mom nuts when he left it crooked), and steeled himself as he opened the door. 

The house was eerily silent. 

He crept down the stairs, following the steady beat of Derek’s heart into the pantry. He stood, eying the shelves critically, and ignored him.

“What do you want?” Scott gave in and asked, finally.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Derek said simply, pulling a box of chicken broth off the shelf and reading the ingredients carefully. “I cornered Stiles and he said Allison dumped you and you were drowning your misery in boy bands and junk food.”

“Stiles is a dirty liar and he’s not my best friend.”

Derek eyed him flatly over his shoulder.

Scott pouted. 

Derek rolled his eyes.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here.” Scott wasn’t sulking. Just like Derek never brooded. They were non-sulker-broods.

God, Scott was really pathetic right now. He needed Derek gone. Scott couldn’t stand there to be witnesses. (Other than Stiles, because if Stiles told, Scott could just reveal that time he peed his pants in sixth grade. Actually, speaking of.)

“Also, Stiles once stepped on the pet snake and freaked out so bad he peed his pants.”

Derek’s look made it very clear he was both grossed out by Scott’s announcement and entirely confused why he’d said it in the first place.

Scott crossed his arms stubbornly, “He broke bro-code. Bros don’t tell when bros are broken hearted.”

Derek rolled his eyes again, smacked the chicken broth into Scott’s arms, picked up a packet of noodles and canned peas from the pantry, and shoved him out of the way. “Go grab chicken from the freezer.”

“We don’t have any chicken in the freezer.”

Derek grabbed the chicken from the freezer.

“Ok, really, dude. What are you doing? Why are you invading my house? Why are you taking over my kitchen? Are you feeling withdrawls from living in your shitty little train car? Maybe you should just move, ya know, instead of breaking into my house and stealing my food.”

“Stiles said Allison cut her hair.”

Oh my god, seriously? Scott slumped, “Yes. Yes, ok, Allison cut her hair and Lydia pulled me aside and told me that meant she was totally done with me forever and that I was just pathetic and making a fool of myself. Something about a girl cutting her hair and it being like, I don’t know, a done deal.”

“Break-up hair.”

What. 

He stare at Derek incredulously. How on Earth did Derek know what break-up hair was?

Derek looked at him and raised one of his stupidly intimidating eyebrows.

“What.”

Instead of getting a response, Derek just eyed Scott for a moment and shrugged, setting on the ingredients on the counter while he pulled out a pot and two pans. “Laura did it, too.”

“Oh.” Way to go, McCall. Making it weird.

Not that breaking, entering, and cooking wasn’t weird or anything. 

“Does it really mean…”

Derek grunted. It sounded like a bad grunt. 

“Oh.”

Scott stood there awkwardly as Derek threw frozen chicken onto one of the pans and put the chicken stock in the pot and set it boil. 

“So…”

“Scott.” Derek turned around and stepped into his personal space. Scott refused to lean back. His turf, etc. Probably. “Shut up, sit down, and eat your soup.” He reached over and pulled out a chair. “And for God’s sake, turn off Yellowcard.”

“Why are you being nice to me?” Scott inched his way towards the doorway.

Derek sighed, slumped his shoulders, and looked heavenward like dealing with Scott was some eternal burden. “Scott,” He rolled his head to look at him, eyes oddly soft with an odd touch of pity and an even more alien dose of sympathy. “Allison’s been dating Lydia for three weeks. Everybody knew.”

Oh, fuck it, Scott decided. The Yellowcard stayed.


End file.
